


Getting in The Game

by poisontaster



Series: Books of the Living [3]
Category: Angel: the Series, Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consensual Infidelity, Crossover, Dean Has Powers, Grief/Mourning, Healing Sex, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-03
Updated: 2006-12-03
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:55:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5151071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gunn's been out of it for a while now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting in The Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inlovewithnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/gifts).



> Gratitude to mona1347 and likeadeuce for beta services.

_Poor men wanna be rich, rich men wanna be kings,_  
And a king aint satisfied till he rules everything.  
I wanna go out tonight, I wanna find out what I got.  
Now I believe in the love that you gave me.  
I believe in the faith that could save me.  
I believe in the hope and I pray that some day it  
Will raise me above these  
"Badlands" by Bruce Springsteen

"So…are we gonna stand out here all night?" Sam asks, huddling deeper into his hoodie, his fists shoved deep in the pockets. "God, explain to me how it gets this cold in L.A.? What are we doing here, anyway?"

Dean chews on his thumbnail, eyeing the door of the bar the way he's _been_ eyeing it for the last fifteen minutes. They're starting to attract attention and not the good kind. "No," Dean says finally. "We're going in." He sighs and makes no move towards the door. "I gotta meet somebody here."

"I thought you said you didn't know anybody in L.A." The boy-whore on the corner blows him a kiss and Sam ducks his head, blushing.

"I don't," Dean agrees.

Sam fists his hands. Dean's been weird and uncommunicative (more than usual) all the way here. "Then what are we _doing_ here?"

Dean shrugs, head down, neck hunched, the way it does when he feels awkward and defensive. "I have to deliver a message."

§ § § § §

"…you tell them once, you tell them a million times; do _not_ mix up which gun has the rock salt and which has the silver tips. I mean, it's a rookie mistake, am I right?"

"You're not wrong," Gunn agrees, taking a long pull off his beer. "It's like they think they're invincible."

"Yes!" The dude—Dean—slams his beer down on the table and it burps foam. "Exactly! Like you're always going to be there to cover their ass all the time."

Gunn manages to keep his face still at that one. It's not hard. His stint at Wolfram & Hart taught him a lot about poker face. Sometimes, it's more of an effort to get his face to actually _show_ any expression. "But you try," he says, possibly less indifferently than he'd like.

"Well, yeah." Dean shrugs, moving the bottle around on the table to make interlocking rings of condensation. It looks vaguely like a Mezarik protection symbol, Gunn thinks. It could be deliberate; Panacea is that kind of bar, the closest he's come to the camaraderie of having friends in the biz.

After everything went down and Angel disappeared and Wesley died and it was all fucked up and broken, Gunn had drifted for a while. It had been alarmingly easy. The Hyperion was a burnt out shell, but if you trawled deep enough through the wreckage, you could slither through the basement door and head on down. It was still mostly intact—they'd really known how to build them in those days—and if you didn't want for much and didn't ask for much, it was the perfect place to just…kind of hole up and lick your wounds and wait.

Gunn didn't know what he'd been waiting for, really; it had been more of a generalized condition, like a giant hand on him, holding him still and flat. He'd lived off withdrawals from his W&H credit card for a while; in all the chaos, it had taken them a while to cancel it. Afterwards, he'd stolen or bartered or whatever. Wasn't like he'd needed much.

And then one day he'd just…woken up. Sat up in the nest of moth eaten and ragged blankets and suddenly just really, fully and finally been aware of _himself_. Aloud, he'd said, "All right, this shit's got to stop," and realized it was the first time he'd spoken aloud in God only knows _how_ long. He'd gotten up, gotten out, and scraped up the cash to get a shower and room at the local Y.

And things had just gone on from there.

He hadn't heard from any of the others. Maybe they didn't want to see him. Maybe they were dead. He didn't know. Wasn't in any particular hurry to find out. All of that, that life before, seemed hazy and unreal and more than that, raw and delicate to the touch. Better to let it scar up, he thinks.

He'd gotten hired on by Mr. Trangkamsataya, who owned about half this neighborhood and was half-Thai and half…something else. Gunn didn't really want to know about that, either. Panacea was one of Trangkamsataya's bars, which—given the clientele—seemed rather ironic. But the thing about hunters is they're good at keeping their heads down and their noses out of what doesn't concern them, as long as you were born in this dimension from two human parents.

Gunn doesn't mention the cat living in his head. Just seems safer that way.

"So what've you got?" Dean's asking.

Gunn's fingernails pick at the label of his longneck. "Sister," he answers finally, surprising himself. He doesn’t talk about Alonna. Hasn't in _years_ , even with Angel and Co.

Dean grins. It's cocky and well-pleased with itself, but it's like a kid's grin, all enthusiasm and geeked out fun. It doesn't menace, though Gunn suspects it could, given the right motivation. Course, he's a little low on motivation himself lately. "Yeah, me too." He takes a swig of his beer. "Fact, here he is now. Sam-my!"

Gunn turns a little. He normally tries to sit where no one can come up behind him or in a blind spot, but it's a Friday and there must be some kind of hunter convention going on or something because the place is packed. The kid making his way over doesn't look much like Dean, taller and lankier. Then his head shifts at the sound of his name and Gunn can see it; the shape of his nose in profile, the same sharp chin, disguised by the differences in their jaw lines, the lengths of their hair.

He circles around Gunn to stand by his brother. "Charles Gunn, I'd like you to meet my little sister, Sammy— _ow_!"

"It's Sam, you asshole," Sam says, not in the least sorry for the thwack to the back of Dean's head. He holds out his hand. "How you doin', man?"

Gunn nods, shakes his hand. "Can't complain too much," he says. "What brings you guys to L.A.?"

"Oh, little of this, little of that," Dean says evasively, crunching a handful of peanuts. "Hear you guys had a real shitstorm go down couple years ago."

Gunn shrugs. Sometimes it amazes him, how far one can get on a simple shrug.

"Can't tell much, though," Sam hastens to say. "The city's bounced back pretty well."

Another shrug. "That's L.A. for you," he answers.

"C'mon, Dean says, suddenly impatient. "Let's play some pool. I'm bored."

"Sure. Why not?"

"So Gunn here's got a younger sister too," Dean says as Sam racks the balls with a kind of fussy precision, swapping solids and stripes until they're to his satisfaction. Sam aims a kick in Dean's direction, which Dean dodges easily before swatting Sam in the ass with his cue.

"Jerk," Sam says, neatly whipping the triangle off the felt and tucking it under the table.

"Bitch," Dean answers, bouncing light on his toes, pool cue balanced in his blunt hands. "I was thinking maybe we should hook you two crazy kids up. But then I thought…hey, she's probably not a lesbian, is she, Gunn? And there's only room for one pussy in _that_ relationship."

Sam chases Dean around the table, sparing Gunn an answer. Idly, he thinks he should correct Dean, let him know that Alonna's dead, has been dead for years, but totally aside from his 'don't ask, don't tell' policy regarding her, he finds himself weirdly loathe to admit she's gone.

He sort of likes imagining her here with him, joking and bickering and punching him in the arm. Climbing onto his back and making him parade her around the bar, declaring at the top of her lungs that Charles Gunn is a big fat punk. She would have liked the brothers Winchester, and she probably would have flirted with Sam and Dean both, smiling at Gunn's discomfort at the reminder that his sister was indeed, when all was said and done, _a girl_.

"C'mon," Dean says finally, dumping Sam off his shoulders with a squawk from the younger man. He ruffled a hand over the short buzzed ends of his hair, grabs his beer from the side table and gulps thirstily. "You in this game or what?"

Gunn smiles and lines up his shot at the huddle of colored balls at the other end of the table. He used to be pretty good at this once upon a time, and he's already calculating vectors and angles and velocity in his head. The cue is off center by .0169 degrees and there's a slight dip in the slate that will ricochet the cue if he doesn't alter by a centimeter and a half. "Let's find out."

§ § § § §

"You want to." Sam's tone is flat. When it gets like that, Dean can't read anything from it, which is precisely why the irritating little shit does it. But the choice to _use_ the voice is a tell all its own.

Dean shrugs and shoves his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the cold green-ice tile. "If it's a big deal, I won't."

Sam shrugs too. "We're just talking here," he says, folding his arms over his ribs. He considers for a while, staring and Dean fights the irritating impulse to squirm. "Is this…is this like the postcards?"

Dean twitches. He always tries to be down-low with the messages he ferries back and forth from the dead. But the sheer volume has increased since Sam came back (Dean tries not to think about that too much) and sometimes Sam catches him, like a thief, his hands full of scrawled pasteboard rectangles. He still has yet to explain them.

And now this.

"Why?" Sam asks finally and Dean only hears the splinter of uncertainty because he's listening for it.

He rips his hands out of his pockets, scraping his knuckles across the stitching, to wrap his fingers around the nape of Sam's neck. The skin is slightly hot, slightly damp, Sam's hair curling ticklishly into his knuckles. Sam's head bends until their foreheads meet.

"I won't," Dean says softly. "Not unless you say it's okay." He pauses, trying to organize instincts into words because Sam's never trusted his instincts as much as he does words.

"He needs it," Dean says finally. "I mean, I don't know if _he_ knows it. But if ever there was a guy who needed to let off some excess tension…present company excluded, of course…"

Sam grins and shoves him and Dean relaxes a little. He shoves back, both hands, and then they're tussling back and forth, his arm around Sam's neck in a head lock and Sam, the dirty fucking fighter, rabbit punching him in the ribs.

And like that, it's settled.

Because that's how Winchesters roll.

§ § § § §

It's hard for Gunn to get really, truly drunk these days.

Not that he's tried too hard, you understand. Aside from his own skeeviness about being chemically altered in the cesspits of L.A., the cat wouldn't put up with it, growling its displeasure. It doesn't sound like much of a deterrent until it's your head in question. The cat—because he can't rightly call it a conduit anymore—has ways of making its feelings known.

For example, it likes Dean.

Not that he can blame it; what's not to like?

Dean reminds him a lot of himself, back before Alonna, back before it all went crazy and him with it. It's not naiveté, exactly, Gunn can tell the world's done it's fair share of kicking both Winchester boys in the crotch a time or two. But they're still up. Still juking and quick-stepping, where Gunn feels more like he's been down for the count on the mat for a while and edging perilously close to that dreaded 'ten'.

It's not a pleasant thing to suddenly realize about yourself.

"You're thinking too much."

Dean's leaning across the round little table, right up in Gunn's grill and his grin could charm the devil. Gunn blinks at him, feeling slower than usual and sort of befuddled and…oh, yeah, _drunk_.

The cat's purring rustily, brushing back and forth across the inside of his skin. It's…weird.

"What?" he asks finally and possibly too loud, realizing some kind of response is probably called for.

Dean's eyes are very green and very bright as he settles his butt back onto the bar stool. "I said, you're thinking too much." He drains the rest of his beer sideways without losing eye contact and then licks his lips. "You wanna get out of here? Get some blood pumping?"

"What'd you have in mind?" Gunn looks over towards Dean's brother, who abandoned them a couple hours ago to try his hand at the pool tables. He's currently reigning supreme on Table Six, the one with the gimpy leg that gives it a tilt of 3.12 degrees. "What about your brother?"

Dean shrugs. There's only a split second hesitation to show it's practiced. Gunn doubts anyone entirely human would have caught it. But he has his doubts about himself on that score, even without the cat. "Sam's a grown boy. He can handle himself for a few hours."

"Few hours?" Gun repeats and raises an eyebrow. He wishes the fucking cat would stop with the damn purring already; it's hard to concentrate when your whole body feels like it's buzzing. "Think highly of yourself, don't you?"

Dean grins. "With good reason," he says. His voice contains none of his face's boastfulness. "But I've got a _plan_." He taps his temple wisely with his forefinger.

Gunn feels something tighten in his belly but it feels good. It feels like readiness. "And what makes you think I'll go along with this plan?"

Dean licks his lips a second time until they're flushed pink as his tongue. He's fixated on Gunn's mouth and there's no mistaking the heat of his look. "Instinct."

§ § § § §

Gunn must still be fuddled ( _a confused state; muddle; jumble. To make drunk; intoxicate._ ) with however much liquor Dean plied him with (10 beers, 12 shots of tequila, 3 of vodka and the one of Jagermeister it took for him to realize it was as vile as it smelled) because he lets Dean lead him out of the unofficial safe zone of Trangkamsataya's territory and into a part of the concrete jungle that anyone with a scrap of common sense or survival instinct knows to avoid. If they value their life, that is; Gunn guesses that as long as there are vamps around, fools will keep on committing suicide by demon.

Dean doesn't say anything. Gunn doesn't either.

It takes less than five minutes (3.5) for them to pick up a tail.

Like a jilted lover avoiding the places they know their ex is most likely to show, Gunn's avoided this. It hurts, an incompletely healed scar. But if he'd really wanted to stop this he could have turned Dean down back at the bar. Or at any point between then and now. And Gunn knows that scars have to be aired and stretched or they fester and pucker, never healing quite right.

In the alley, Dean presses a knife, curved and wicked, into one hand and a stake in the other. Gunn says, "Yesss…" low and guttural, eager, and he recognizes the cat's voice in there as well as his own.

"Relax," Dean says with that same bright grin. "I know it's been a while."

Gunn's grin is rueful, not bitter. Bitterness is expensive. Too expensive for a man of his reduced means. "Shows, huh?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nah. I just get…a feel about people, you know?" He pulls up the back of his shirt and produces another knife to go with the shaved down Japanese collapsible baton he's already got.

"A feel, huh?" Gunn sniffs. "What kind of feel you get about me?"

"Oh, a good one," Dean says with mock solemnity. He takes a step into Gunn's space but Dean's not his alpha, current or former, and Gunn doesn't back down for less. Dean didn't really want him to back down anyway, slipping the baton between Gunn's legs, sliding it lightly forth and back against his balls. "Not as good as I'd like, though."

He's looking a question at Gunn— _what you gonna do, man?_ —and though they only have a few seconds before the teeth of the trap close on them, Gunn presses another step forward into it, grabbing Dean by his jacket lapels and pulling him in hard to taste those rough-soft lips.

Dean's got more lip than Wes or Fred or Angel; more lip than anyone he's kissed in a long time. Not that Gunn's kissed anyone in what feels like half of forever. The sweetness of it is like Fred. The grit of stubble is Wesley. And the wildness, barely leashed, that's Angel all over.

And yet, it's none of them. It's just a boy close to his own age, a hunter, a brother and Gunn doesn't know how to feel, other than a completely primal _More._

Then the vamps close in.

"Don't worry," Dean says as they pull apart and pivot out from each other. "It's like riding a bike."

And it is.

His body remembers. Gunn remembers.

There's a joy to this, a joy that had been eclipsed in all the grief, the Pyrrhic victories, the wars of attrition.

He forgot. How could he forget?

§ § § § §

Back in his room, his blood singing through his veins and the cat licking metaphysical blood primly from its paws, Gunn foot sweeps Dean and slams him down into one of the motelesque chairs.

Dean's back arches and his feral cat grin widens as the breath goes out of him with a grunt. And then Gunn's on him, straddling Dean's legs, latching onto his collar. He devours Dean's slutty warm mouth like _he's_ the vampire and Dean doesn't say no. Not that Gunn ever thought there was any possibility of it (0.15%).

When he pulls back and regards Dean through heavy-lidded eyes, Dean arches his back again, settles a little wider in the chair and says, "So here's how it is. I don't bottom. You wanna be fucked, I'm good to go; I got condoms and lube in my pocket. You just wanna suck or be sucked, I'm down for that too. Or we can go hands and fingers. I'm flexible."

"You charging?" Gunn asks, unable to keep his hands out of Dean's soft, bristly hair, scruffing along the stubbled line of his jaw.

"Naw," Dean says. "Just straightforward. Is that cool?"

Gunn takes a breath. Yes. Straightforward. He used to be that once.

With his memory, he should still remember how it goes.

He starts undoing his jeans. Dean's eyes darken and the pointed tip of his tongue swipes across the fullness of his bottom lip. He grabs onto the belt loops at the back of Gunn's jeans and suddenly _heaves_ up. Gunn tips backwards, arms pinwheeling and they hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, Dean's hands cushioning the back of Gunn's head.

Dean's still grinning. Gunn wonders if he ever stops and adds a little bit of Connor to the mix, not that he and Connor had ever done shit like this, even in the halcyon days of Jasmine. He'd never quite been able to forget that fat, smiling baby. Panting, Dean leans in to bite Gunn's mouth and then he's slithering down between Gunn's spread out legs.

It's too hot. He's too hot. Gunn wrestles the layers of his shirts up and over his head while Dean parts his jeans, bends to mouth Gunn's cock through his shorts. A moment later, Gunn lifts his hips and Dean hooks his fingers in the cloth, tugging it all down his thighs.

Then.

Warm, blunt fingers around the base of his cock, thumb pressing the vein, followed by a hot-wet sucking pull on the head. Dean's mouth is as sinful on the inside as it is on the out, talented flutters of tongue against bundles of nerves, delving into the slit where's he's most sensitive and could probably come from that alone, the light friction of teeth to make it just rough enough and plenty of spit to make the whole thing smooth.

Gunn's fingers twist hard and deep into Dean's hair and Dean just hums, arching into it. After the initial clutch of 'oh my God, if you stop, I will _kill_ you', Gunn's fingers wander lower, tracing the curve of Dean's skull, finding the hollow at the nape of his neck (16 lbs. of pressure per square inch to separate spine from skull), his shoulders.

Jasmine taught him this; the shape, the feel of a man's body that is not his own. It'd felt good to give way, let go of old and preconceived notions of pleasure, how it can be given, received, and distributed. It'd just felt good. Everything since then had been a rearguard action to shore up the void left after Jasmine, when it felt like nothing would ever be good again. And in some ways, that suspicion had been justified. But the memory doesn't cut the way it did when it was new and sharper-edged. He can think of it and remember his joy with bemused fondness rather than bile-bitterness.

He can reach to shift Dean around, wanting the taste, the feel of Dean in him and on him. Dean's more than happy enough to go along with this agenda, and there's some wrestling and tugging and even—surprisingly enough—laughing as they roll around getting naked, getting comfortable.

"Haven't done this in a while, either," Gunn admits huskily, when they're face to face again. "But I do remember it went a bit nicer in a bed."

"Yeah, I may have the memory of something like that," Dean agrees, pushing lazily against Gunn's hip. His hand keeps tracing Gunn's arm, like it's something precious. Dean tilts his head, bites Gunn's throat, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to feel really good. Gunn groans and thrusts against Dean's thigh. "Or we could stay right here."

In the end, they do both. Dean sucks him there on the threadbare carpet until Gunn's shoulders and heels are rug-burned and his body's liquid with afterglow. Then Gunn takes Dean to his bed.

Dean's body can be mapped by its scars, pale-shiny-old or pink-ugly-new. Gunn finds them all, with lips and tongue and fingertip.

"You don't…you don't have to," Dean says, suddenly awkward. He has one arm flung over his eyes like he can't bear to see something done to his body that's not brought out of violence. "Just… Just suck me or something, man."

"Man, shut the hell up," Gunn answers. "I'm working here."

Dean groans, but he doesn't say anything else as Gunn continues his exploration. Dean's cock is hard to bursting by the time Gunn finds his way to it; Dean's cry, when Gunn runs the tip of his finger around the ridge, tells him how sensitive Dean is, how ready.

"Don't," Dean says, his voice hoarse and robbed of all its cockiness now. His back and neck bow as he makes tiny writhes on the sheets, seeing friction, release. "Please…"

He can tell Dean's not an asker. He doesn't ask for things. So if he does, if he is, then it's important.

"Yes," Gunn agrees. He kisses Dean's mouth. Then he kisses Dean's cock, the head pearled with pre-come. Another bitten-off, hurt moan and then Gunn opens his mouth and sucks Dean down. He doesn't think he was ever good at this, but he also knows that skill isn't really all that important.

"Oh, _fuck_ , he's going to kill me," Dean whispers once, viciously, and then he's emptying himself into Gunn's mouth.

The taste is a remembrance all it's own, stronger than memory. Each pulse is a face in his mind:

Alonna.

Cordelia.

Connor.

Lorne.

Wes.

Angel.

Fred.

"Can you stay?" he asks when it's over and they're sprawled lazy on the sheets. "Not…not all night," he says, when Dean hesitates slightly. "Just until I sleep?"

Dean's relaxation is immediate; his hand resumes its slow slide across his belly. "Yeah," he says. "I can do that."

It's more about not falling asleep alone than any hypothetical need to snuggle; Gunn rolls over faces the wall with his back to Dean. He's surprised when, a moment later, Dean fits himself against Gunn's skin, arm curving over his waist.

He fades quickly and sleeps without dreams.

§ § § § §

"I don't want to talk about it," Sam says stiffly, when he picks Dean up. Dean reeks of soap. He's pinkly scrubbed to within an inch of his life…which Sam guesses is better than the alternative, but not by much. "Like… _ever_. Not a fucking word."

"Fine. Scootch. I'm driving."

"Fuck you," Sam says. " _I'm_ driving." He looks up, makes himself meet Dean's eyes. It hurts. Hurts more to see Dean looking back at him, helpless and unhappy.

Dean shrugs, looks down. "Okay."

He climbs into the passenger's side and turns slightly out towards the door. Sam's lips thin and he pulls out, burning a little rubber as he goes.

Dean doesn't say anything.

They're forty miles outside L.A. when Dean says—almost inaudible over the music—"Some messages can't be told in words. That's all. So…are we okay?"

And the thing is? Sam's kind of hurt and he's pissed…but he's not _that_ pissed. Because Dean's been his since day one and he guesses that won't ever change. "Yeah, Dean," he says, tired too. He hasn't slept and he probably shouldn't be behind the wheel now except that the driving distracts him. "We're okay." He looks at Dean and sees his miserable, hangdog look. Sam sighs. "Dean, we're fine. But you know—someday _soon_ —we're going to have a talk about _all_ of this, right?"

"Aw, man," Dean whines, but he sounds relieved.

Sam feels relieved too. He checks the mirrors and pulls back out onto the road. "So'd you get your message delivered?"

"Yeah," Dean says distantly, staring at something out the windshield that Sam can't see. "I'm pretty sure I did."  


**Author's Note:**

> Here endeth the story. The rest of this is pure rambly goodness and you can feel free to skip.
> 
> The genesis of this story is fairly straightforward: many moons ago, Night expressed a desire to see some Dean/Gunn and, always eager to make her happy, I thought, "I can do that!"
> 
> That very week, as I pondered (weak and weary), 60_minute_fics came up with a prompt that totally set off my creative juices and I wrote the first scene in the bar. I knew I wanted to touch on the subject of Gunn's sister Alonna, who got dropped as a motivation or plot device pretty early on in Gunn's arc, and kind of reflect on how the relationship (brotherly, omg, get your minds out of the GUTTER, people, really!) between the Winchester boys would remind Gunn of him and Alonna pretty strongly and how that would create an older sibling bond between him and Dean. Because, really. They are both so totally That Guy. That BROTHER. And from that I was going to build a nice little PWP where Gunn opens up a little about Alonna and Dean feels like he can give a little something back to this dude that is so much like him, but might have lost his way a little bit when he lost his sister.
> 
> But then the muse sort of abandoned me midstream and though I'd look at the story longingly from time to time (or cringingly, when it showed up on my fic to-do list every month) Kink would not be budged with further inspiration.
> 
> A little later, as I got more violently OTP about Sam/Dean, I had a brief flash of Dean asking permission from Sam to go and have sex with Gunn. 
> 
> But then, after NaNo ate up my November, and I was feeling desperate to work on something different that can be accomplished relatively quickly before I delve back into my Dark Mary AU, I looked at this story again and said, "…hmmm."
> 
> Another story I wrote, Books of the Living, Books of the Dead (I always want to type that Books of the Dean) referenced Dean receiving messages from the dead, usually obscure things that he can't connect to a living person, and so he transcribes them onto postcards and puts them, unaddressed and unstamped into the mail. I really love that story to no end and I recently wrote a follow up to it with vague ideas of expanding this into a third (or more). 
> 
> So on returning to this story, the two notions kind of combined in my head: Dean asking Sam for permission and Dean wanting to have sex with Gunn for reasons that went past simple libido. He wanted to give Gunn something, the whole 'healing through sex' cliché, you know? And then I took it a step further, because I really do believe that if they could get a message to Gunn, his friends would tell him to get up and get on with his life. Get back in the game, as it were.
> 
> I never did quite decide which ghost or spirit it was that spoke to Dean, or whether it was a mass attack, so to speak. I think it's a good idea to leave some thing to the reader's imagination, after all.
> 
> And the Springsteen lyrics? Well. This story IS for Night. What story would be complete without them?


End file.
